


Til Death Do You Part

by tisfan



Series: Tales from the Communal Kitchen (the ex-assassins files) [19]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Implied Mind Rape, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mind Control, but you know it's going to, nothing actually happens on screen, pre-trash, this author has regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-10 05:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: He was trying not to think because thinking was painful. Thinking was remembering. Thinking was…Well, thinking was. Wasn’t it?Mind-controlled Tony Stark aided and abetted genocide, the destruction of everything that he loved or cared about, conquered the world. All that's left for MODOK to do... is conquer Tony Stark.Here is how he succeeds.





	Til Death Do You Part

**Author's Note:**

> For this inbox prompt
> 
> _I have an IronDoon prompt : After Civil War Doon rescued Tony that loses his memories and make him his "Queen"_  
> 
> SPOILERS FOR THE COMMUNAL KITCHEN IF YOU HAVE NOT READ END OF TOMORROW AND INTEND TO DO SO. 
> 
> Dear Nonny,
> 
> I’m almost positive this is NOT what you had in mind. Sorry about that.
> 
> If you’ve read the Communal Kitchen Series, this story takes place in the “2047 Future/End of Tomorrow” timeline, after M.O.D.O.K. has taken over the world. Somewhere around 2022, or thereabouts.

He was kneeling.

He was kneeling at his master’s side and trying not to think.

The armor was comfortable, even if he would never feel safe inside it again. It couldn’t protect him anymore. He sometimes wondered if it ever had, or if it had just made him a greater target. If he hadn’t created the armor, would his master’s eyes ever turned on him, or would he have been dismissed, as he had always been before, as a rich, bratty, party-boy. Not worthy of anything but scorn.

Certainly not worthy of the honor of kneeling at M.O.D.O.K.’s side.

He was trying not to think because thinking was painful. Thinking was remembering. Thinking was…

Well, thinking was. Wasn’t it?

“Your majesty,” the seneschal squeaked, then screamed, then didn’t make another sound.

Von Doom strode into the room, unannounced and unacknowledged because he’d just murdered another doorman.

His master would not be pleased at the disruption, but M.O.D.O.K. wouldn’t care about the poor man who lay in a crumpled and bleeding heap to one side of the throne room. Not quite dead. The HUD popped up all the relevant medical data. The man could possibly even be saved, if he got treatment in time.

“Master?” he said, his voice low pitched, keeping the audio as far down as he could. The suit’s voice modulator had been adjusted to make his tones as servile as possible. He’d discovered his master was more… lenient, that way. “Master, the doorman?”

His master didn’t acknowledge him. Continued to poke at the holographic display.

“Von Doom to see you,” he said, that statement compelled from him. Part of his standing orders: protect his master, serve his master, announce guests, kill when commanded. Kneel.

“Good,” M.O.D.O.K. said. He shut the display with a wave of one sticklike arm.

“How dare you summon me?” Von Doom demanded, as he drew closer.

“Master?” he managed again. “The doorman, please?” It was hard, asking for favors, and he knew what it would cost him.

M.O.D.O.K. spared him a glance, then at the dying doorman. “Summon aid,” he said, moving his hands in that gesture that was the best M.O.D.O.K. could do for a shrug, not having shoulders to speak of. “Then get our esteemed colleague a chair.”

A flick of the eyes, and a medical team was alerted to the problem in the throne room. He tried not to sigh with relief. The doorman had been someone he knew, once. Not someone who was a friend, but an employee. Someone who’d been kind. He couldn’t remember the name. It didn’t matter. A sacrifice to the altar of not thinking. M.O.D.O.K. was running out of captives that he knew.

Von Doom was all the way to the throne.

He knew what was expected of him. Forcing his master to make it an order, forcing M.O.D.O.K. to use the implant in his spine to gain obedience would be in no one’s interest. Especially after his master allowed aid to be summoned.

He sighed. At least his face was hidden by the faceplate. He shifted up onto his hands and knees, crawled in front of the hoverchair. Listened to the whirr and thrum of the repulsors under the chair. He’d built those, adapted them to the tech that M.O.D.O.K. needed.

When he was exactly where M.O.D.O.K. wanted him to be, he locked his elbows, ducked his head.

Von Doom took his offered seat, resting his ass and muscular thighs across the slave’s back.

Von Doom wasn’t heavy; not while the slave was in his armor; the suit bore most of the weight. It was the humiliation that weighed heavily on his heart.

Not thinking. Not thinking. Just stay right there. Don’t draw their attention. Just be a chair. That’s all. Nothing more.

“How dare you summon Doom?” Von Doom snarled. It was a mock snarl and the slave knew it. Doom was the weaker of the two in the room. He survived primarily because M.O.D.O.K. did not consider him enough of a threat to bother with, and he’d been useful in the past. M.O.D.O.K. didn’t hold much with gratitude, but he did get a lot of pleasure out of making Doom angry.

“M.O.D.O.K. is going to give you a gift, old friend,” M.O.D.O.K. said. “You’ll like that, won’t you? A gift, and both Doom and M.O.D.O.K. will be satisfied.”

“What sort of gift?” Von Doom was suspicious. The slave didn’t much blame him for that. Gifts were not much in M.O.D.O.K.’s good graces, even when they were being given to M.O.D.O.K..

“To solve the problems,” M.O.D.O.K. said, laughing. The slave hated his master’s laughter. It was cold and cruel. “The problems that this one causes M.O.D.O.K..”

Von Doom put a hand on the armor’s tasset as if petting the slave’s ass possessively. “Doom thought Stark couldn’t cause _you_ problems, anymore.”

The slave shuddered. He didn’t like hearing his name. His name meant thinking, meant remembering. Meant… he had to steady his elbows. If he dropped Doom on the floor by crumpling to the ground, there would be _trouble_. He didn’t want trouble.

“It resists,” M.O.D.O.K. said, as if the slave couldn’t hear. Couldn’t understand. “Destruction, it can be ordered. Kill. Kneel. Stand here. Go there. Eat, don’t eat. Things that M.O.D.O.K. can tell it to do, it does. M.O.D.O.K. cannot tell it to _create_.”

Not thinking. Not thinking was the only weapon the slave had found. His master couldn’t order him to _imagine_. Couldn’t order him to _love_. Creation came from love, from imagination, and if the slave didn’t have those, M.O.D.O.K. didn’t know how to unlock his potential.

M.O.D.O.K. had found a few ways to draw cooperation out of him.

Hurting someone that the slave knew, or cared about, or could be persuaded to care about.

Hurting the slave didn’t compel him to anything except a vague sense of hope that the torture might be carried too far and that he would die and be free. Too much hurt could damage the brain, and it was for the slave’s brain that he’d been taken in the first place. M.O.D.O.K. wasn’t willing to make that sacrifice. Not yet.

The only other weapon M.O.D.O.K. had was _remembering_. He could order the slave to remember.

Not thinking.

The slave counted the flagstones under his fingers. The tiny shifts in posture of the man who sat on him like he was furniture.

“So, it’s useless, then?”

“No,” M.O.D.O.K. said. “Just… M.O.D.O.K. doesn’t understand some things about humans. But M.O.D.O.K. thought, friend Doom might be the key to unlocking some potential. If Doom still wants the pretty for himself.”

“You promised Stark to me years ago, when we--”

“M.O.D.O.K. knows. M.O.D.O.K. remembers,” his master cautioned. “So, you want it, still?”

“You’re going to give Stark to me?”

“If you want it,” M.O.D.O.K. said. “Proper, and right. It is not your toy. You will court it, take care of it. You will… marry it. M.O.D.O.K., Doom, and Stark. The Triumvirate.”

“Marry it?” Von Doom’s voice was incredulous. The slave shuddered again, remembering against his will. He’d been married, once. He’d loved… loved once. “Why dress it up pretty? Marriage is about a partnership. This one… Stark’s not going to do what Doom requires of him, not without force, so why not call a slave a slave?”

‘Doom forgets what M.O.D.O.K. can do,” M.O.D.O.K. cackled, gleeful. “Doom wants its love? Wants its body, given freely? M.O.D.O.K. can make it do that.”

The slave wondered if its master even knew what love was. What love could do. If M.O.D.O.K. had any idea about the power of love, his master would not have been so quick to use the slave to destroy--

He bit down, hard. Stifled the soft, keening whine that leaked from his throat.

“It’s hardly voluntary if you’re forcing him,” Von Doom said, shrugging. His entire posture projected nonchalance, but the slave could feel the new tenseness in Von Doom’s thighs. _Anticipation_.

“Does Doom need _love_?” M.O.D.O.K. mocked, voice crooning and sickeningly sweet, “or does Doom merely need a willing vessel?”

“He’ll cooperate? Doom won’t need to tie him down?”

“Doom can tie it up, if Doom wishes,” M.O.D.O.K. said. “M.O.D.O.K. does not care about that. But it will do what Doom wants. Conditionally.”

“What conditions?”

“Doom must not hurt its mind. No _permanent_ damage. No bones broken. Does Doom agree to this?”

“Doom is in agreement.”

“Stand up,” M.O.D.O.K. ordered, and there was no mistaking it for an order. “Doom should not sit on his affianced bride. Not outside the bedchamber.”

The absence of Von Doom’s weight was terrifying.

“Get up, Stark,” M.O.D.O.K. commanded. The order went through Tony’s spine like lightening, jolting into his brain. He was on his feet before he had a chance to control his own limbs, his own muscles.

M.O.D.O.K. chewed his enormous, chapped lip. His master knew to be cautious by this point. Tony had done everything he could think of to circumvent orders. He’d nearly succeeded in killing himself twice. Goaded Steve into nearly destroying him, which would have been a relief, except that at the last moment, Steve had, what? Had an attack of conscience? Thought maybe Tony was still inside the body that was hurting so many people? Whatever. Tony was deeply disappointed that Cap had retreated, rather than finish the job.

“Remove the armor, send it away.”

Easily done, and he stood there, a little cold, in his flight undersuit. His master preferred a chillier room than most, being so large. His feet were bare against the cold flagstones and it drew a shudder up through his bones.

“You will not harm yourself,” M.O.D.O.K. crooned. Tony rolled his eyes back; the strength of new commands was like the haze of morphine; he could feel pain, could feel his regret and his anger and his fear, but he couldn’t… care as much about them. “You will do nothing for the next eight days to cause yourself harm. You will not harm anyone else.”

Tony nodded. He understood. He would be away from his master for a period of eight days. He understood. He would do nothing to harm himself. He would not hurt anyone. Why would he want to hurt anyone? He never wanted to hurt anyone.

“This is your betrothed,” M.O.D.O.K. said. He gestured with one arm at Von Doom. “You care for him. You want him. You have desire for him. You have a week to indulge yourselves. You want whatever he wants from you. You will enjoy it. You will make sure Doom enjoys himself. Do you understand?”

There was a struggle; revulsion so deep it made his bones crack and break. Loathing that boiled his blood. Fear and anguish that knotted his gut and drove him to his knees. He didn’t care about Von Doom, he cared… he _loved…_ he…

Got to his feet. Smirked at his master. Linked his arm with Victor’s; the contact felt good. It had been a while since he’d been out of the suit and his skin ached for human touches. They’d have fun. A whole week of vacation; he hadn’t had a break in… quite some time. Since before the Fall.

“Thank you, sir,” Tony said, giving his master a little bow, jaunty. Turned, smiled up at Victor. Wished his beloved would take off that mask, it was harder to flirt with unmoving, uncaring steel. “So, what’s on the agenda? I hope it involves beaches, I’m constantly freezing around here. Nude beaches are best.” He winked and slid his arm through the crook of Victor’s elbow.

“Bring him back in a week,” his master said.

“Of course.” Victor removed one gauntlet and rested bare fingers over Tony’s hand. The touch was soothing, light. Affectionate. Tony sighed and leaned against Victor’s arm. It was so… nice… to be going on vacation. A week of privacy and luxury and time spent with the man he… cared about. Victor touched Tony’s face. A glitter of a single tear lingered on Victor’s fingertip.

Was he crying? Tony couldn’t remember why he would do that.

“Have a good time,” M.O.D.O.K. called after them.


End file.
